


Bullets

by mellish



Category: Death Note
Genre: AU, Chess, Gen, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-19
Updated: 2008-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys in the war, and a chessboard that hasn't been used.  Written in 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Written for week #16, Historical AU over at [dn_contest](http://community.livejournal.com/dn_contest), hence the random setting. Based somewhat on Ian McEwan's Atonement.

There are ants under his skin. Well, he isn't sure if they are ants, exactly – but they sure _feel_ like insects, because it's hot and crawly and burning all over his chest, like a swarm of them dancing beneath his scars, and he knows he's got many of those, but he is secretly afraid to take a good look. Light doesn't like the idea of having scars. They seem like such ugly things, such huge and scabby reminders of weakness and imperfection and clumsiness, of so many things he _detests_. There are no mirrors in these barracks, so he never has to see them, but when he takes a bath he can still _feel_ them, all over his back and sides, tender and puffy like half-blown balloons of skin. At night he stares up at the pitch-dark ceiling, at the pitch-black sky outside, and the wounds burn like fire.

"Oh, it must hurt such a _lot_," and here is that annoying nurse again. She's in love with him. He can tell. She sits beside his bed whenever possible and gabbers on and on about things he doesn't understand (or care about). She touches him too much, and wears too much makeup. She breaks the regulation dress code, too, with that short white skirt. She has a tiny pin on her breast which indicates that she _did_ take her training, at the very least, but she's careless with her disinfectant and always uses the wrong size syringe, and she's hopeless with bandages.

"Not really." It's not a matter of being noble, really. He sort of – just – maybe it's his ego, but he doesn't want to admit anything hurts. He doesn't want to admit that being a soldier is like a personal funeral every day. Because he _isn't supposed to be here, he's a scholar, goddamit, an inventor, a politician, anything but this_ – and they drafted him just the same. Didn't care if he had tender hands or a brilliant mind, didn't care if he might have found the cure for tuberculosis, or if he even knew how to fire a gun. He was a healthy boy, and they needed him in the war.

He's not useless on the field. He picked up the necessary skills easily enough – and it's his ego again, maybe, but prodigal is as prodigal does, and while he's here, might as well be on top – but not even that can save him from the greedy clutches of death. It nearly got him, twice already – that first time with the hand grenade that got tossed too late, and the second time, with all that shrapnel. The memory of all that metal on his back still makes him shudder.

He doesn't want to die. That's the long and short of it. He doesn't want to die – there's so much possibility for him, so much future left, and he _knows he can do something big_ – but this is war, and the prospects are dim.

"You're so brave!" she squeals, and spills alcohol all over his arm, and he has to bare his teeth and make a _very ugly face_ to keep from screaming. She shrieks and immediately starts mopping it up with some cloth, apologizing for being such a clumsy idiot. _Yes_, he thinks. _At least you realize it_. But the hiss of pain in his arm is still singing like some bad blues tune, so he says nothing. Does nothing, except glare at her for a few moments. She looks as if she might cry – then she runs away, good riddance. He rolls back onto his pillow and tries to sleep. _Two days of rest_, they told him. _Then we need you back on the field._

He hates being a frigging pawn, but he's young and not influential enough, and nobody gives a damn when there's the stench of gunpowder in the air and the possibility of death like a bad aftertaste on everyone's tongues. His scars are burning again.

He doesn't _think_ he falls asleep – but somehow he wakes up, and nearly knocks over the tray on his lap. "Dinner," the nurse says. Still apologetic. Then, as if in penance, she adds in a low voice, "There's a new boy. Survivor of a guerrilla attack. I think he lost a finger, and there are metal bits stuck in his patella." She says the last word like he should be impressed, but the image of a bloodied kneecap is nothing new to him anymore, and difficult vocabulary even more so. "They say he's otherwise perfectly intact. Seems really kooky to me, though."

Only an apprentice nurse like her would use the term boy. Proper nurses would say 'patient.'

He eats the stale viands in silence, taking in this tidbit of gossip like an extra piece of bread. New patients don't matter.

They'll all end up the same, anyway. (That's what unnerves him most.)

Still, that doesn't stop him observing as they cart the new boy into the bed opposite him. After what seems like hours of fussing, the doctor and nurses finally shuffle away, leaving him a clear view of the newcomer. He might be older, but 'Boy' seems to be the appropriate title, because he looks so – well – stupid? childish? - something along those lines. Boy can't seem to lie down properly – he sort of sits up in the bed with his knees curled. Spine problem, maybe? His left kneecap is covered with bandages, as promised, although he's too far away to check about the finger. He has eyes like the pits left by exploded bombs, empty and fathomless, surrounded by dark rings; but his mouth is curved upwards, like a Jack-o-lantern. He twitches. He mutters stuff. His skinny frame shows through the bulky bandages.

If the army is desperate enough to be recruiting people like _him_, they must _really_ be losing the war.

"Hello there," and now it's Light's turn to twitch. Boy's voice is like a pit, as well, rough and hollowed-out. "You're awake, aren't you?"

"I don't sleep anymore." He's bitter and truthful, and somehow that ideal of suffering makes him proud.

"Then," Boy says. "that makes two of us."

He doesn't answer.

"Do you," Boy asks. He pauses. He twitches. "Play chess?"

The memory of the game shoots the insects under Light's skin into a wildly dancing frenzy. He was the best back in his college, and he would have probably made it to the national championships, if the war hadn't suddenly obliterated everything academic in favour of mindless violence. Almost automatically, he answers. "Yes."

"There's a -" Pause, twitch. "- a board on the vacant bed – three rows from the doorway. Saw it – when they brought me in. Fancy –" Boy jerks bodily, making his bed creak. "A game?"

The reply never comes, but Light climbs out of bed, just the same. He walks gingerly. There are blisters on his feet, and his toes are stiff from lying down nearly all day. He searches out the chessboard, and it's there, as promised. He takes slow steps towards Boy's bed, and perches the board at the edge, then sits on the nurse's stool. "You can be white."

Boy makes his move quickly, without thinking – Light has just enough time to notice that he holds the pieces with his pointer and middle finger, because he's missing a thumb – but soon the game takes him over, and he has no time for observations, because he has to think so _hard_. (Why is he not having to take it easy? Who the hell _is this person_?)

The game ends in a tie. He isn't satisfied. He asks for a rematch.

"Do you think there's a chance of winning?" He moves a bishop two spaces forward, cornering the queen right away.

"The war?" Pause. Spasm. He expertly moves a rook for cover. "I'd say there's a - hundredths chance. Maybe. Perhaps."

Then, "So do you think there's a chance of surviving?" He takes one of Boy's pawns.

"Check," Boy answers – he's still holding onto the piece, with trembling fingers. He looks up at him – and for a moment there's a flash of understanding between them, of noble pain and robbed dreams and the perpetual ugliness of a scar, of not belonging here, of being meant for things _greater than war_. Light makes the wrong move, and Boy gobbles up his king. He smiles, lips all curvy and blank. "As for that – does it not depend – on you?"

The taunt stings worse than the nurse's alcohol. _Don't mock me, you bastard. You know how useless this fighting makes us intellectuals._

Light wins the next match, at least. They call it a tie, then cap it off for the night, because if the nurses find them still up they'll be turned back onto the field tomorrow.

"Thank you –" Boy says. "That was – fun."

Light thinks about snorting, but instead he answers, "Sure."

He carries the chessboard back, and climbs into bed. He doesn't sleep. Suddenly the ants are gone. Instead, there's a world of opportunity under his skin, a life of possibility under all the scars. He can do so much. It's everyone stupid enough to _want_ this murder and violence that should die. He won't. Definitely not with this war.

It's hot and crawly and burning inside him, and the sun is coming up. There are a million tomorrows to go, yet.

He'll bite bullets and swallow lead, if necessary, just to see each one.


End file.
